Answering Prayers
by truenarnian
Summary: Fluffy Destiel One Shot. Part of my giveaway. Dean and Sam are in a tight spot and call on Cas for help. They're surprised he answers so quickly.


The call came unexpectedly, right when Castiel was in the middle of scouring Heaven for Raphael. He'd gone back into hiding as Castiel's army grew, leaving him to guess at how he was planning to strike back. It was urgent that he find Raphael before his intentions would be revealed.

But not as urgent as Sam's prayer.

Castiel heard Sam's pleading voice inside his head; at once, Castiel could tell this prayer was different. There was…helplessness in his thoughts, and desperation. Castiel usually ignored Sam's prayers- they were usually just asking for help, but this time, there was real, true fear there. Intrigued, Castiel listened.

_Cas! We need you, _now!_ Get down here!_ Sam yelled. _Dean's in trouble—he's dying! We need your help!_

Sam's words struck Castiel to the core. "No," he breathed. For reasons so illogical he was unlike an angel for a moment, he dropped his hunt for Raphael and allowed his mind to fill with thoughts of Dean: what had he been doing, who had he been hunting, how he had gotten himself hurt. He listened again to Sam's praying, hoping for more details.

_Fellowship Hall of All Saints Presbyterian Church in Hazleton, Pennsylvania!_ It's good that Sam keeps his head in the midst of disaster—if Sam failed to deliver his and Dean's location, Castiel's sigil would have prevented the angel from finding them at all. And if Castiel had to function with the knowledge that Dean was dying…he didn't even want to think about it. So he didn't think: Castiel focused upon the address and teleported there.

A large, cement-walled room suddenly materialized around him, the moon shining through the windows near the ceiling the only light source—they must be underground. Probably the church's basement. There were dozens of folding chairs leaning up against the white-painted walls along with long, plastic, collapsible tables intended for catering church events. There was an altar at the other wall, laid out with a golden plate, cup, and crucifix. They were placed next to a large, paneless window which looked into an outdated kitchen. In the center of the room were six other figures, aside from Castiel: four, whom Castiel could see were demons, surrounded the two others, who were collapsed on the brown-tiled floor. It was Sam, his face battered and sweaty, holding Dean, who had a large, wet rose of blood soaking through the whole front of his plaid shirt.

"Where's your precious angel _now,_ Winchester?" one of the demons snarled.

Something about the demon's taunt incensed Castiel, though he couldn't for sure tell you what. Resolving to ponder it later, he quietly approached the speaker demon from behind, placed his palm on the back of his head, and felt his energy drain slightly as he exorcised the demon from the vessel.

He could see Sam and Dean's shocked expressions in the exorcism's harsh white light. Well, Sam was properly shocked; because Dean was so injured (Castiel felt a pang somewhere inside his vessel's ribs) he only had enough strength to laboriously breathe out, "Cas."

Castiel felt like he was soaring when he realized Dean had said his name with relief.

The other three demons spun around as the vessel fell to the ground, but Castiel was too quick for them. He quickly exorcised the second demon, and by then he had fully gathered the attention of the two other demons in the room. Now that they were out of the spotlight, Sam plunged a hand inside his jacket and withdrew the demon-killing knife, hurling it into the third demon with such an expert throw he could've gone into the circus as a knife-thrower. The dagger pierced the demon squarely in the back, and she collapsed to the ground, the knife buried hilt-deep in her jacket. Castiel had a hand on the fourth demon's forehead before he could react to the exorcisms of his comrades.

"You will not harm the Winchesters," Castiel growled out as white light flooded the vessel's eyes. The vessel fell dead in two seconds.

Sam was staring at Castiel, awestruck. "You showed up," he said. "I can't believe it."

Castiel almost smiled. Almost. Instead, in his usual toneless voice, asked, "What happened to Dean?"

"The demons," Sam panted. "They all fell on him at once. I was locked upstairs in a storage room."

Castiel stepped towards Dean and kneeled down, placing a flat hand against the hunter's slashed torso. Within a blink, the skin had regrown and the muscles had healed, though the blood still stained Dean's shirt and the angel's palm. Dean took a great gasping breath, glad that his lungs were working properly again.

So was Castiel.

Sam helped Dean to his feet, mindful of the sticky spill on his brother's shirt. "Thanks, Cas," Dean said when Castiel had stood up again, looking at him like a soldier looks at his fellow; but there was a certain softness to his gaze, and his lips were pulled back slightly in the most ghostly of smiles. "That might be the first time you've responded to one of Sammy's prayers."

"You were dying, Dean," Castiel said. "I had to come."

"Yeah, well…thanks," Dean repeated, with an air of grasping at straws. "Uhh…wanna help us bury the bodies?"

"I can take care of that faster than you would ever be able to," Castiel replied, grabbing two of the demons and disappearing.

Dean only had time to jerk his head back in surprise before Castiel reappeared, empty-handed and soaking wet.

"Cas?" Dean asked worriedly as the angel withdrew the demon-killing knife from the dead female's back, dropping it onto the floor as he grasped the other two bodies by the forearms.

"Ask when I'm back," Castiel replied before vanishing again, only to reappear two seconds later. "The bodies have been disposed of."

Dean looked almost afraid to ask. "…Where?" he interrogated.

Castiel's simple reply was, "The South China Sea."

The brothers had identical expressions of mild astonishment on their faces: it was an astonishing height to go to, but Cas was one to go very far. "I'll go scrub the blood off the altar upstairs, then," Sam said.

"I'll go into through the kitchen," Dean replied. "Can never have too much salt." Sam nodded and then disappeared through a metal doorway, presumably leading upstairs to the sanctuary. As Dean lazily loped to the kitchen door, Castiel followed at a more even pace as if pulled by a string. Dean began searching through the cupboards while Castiel watched him through the serving window, studying and committing his every movement to memory when Dean's back was turned to him.

"Ya know, that was certainly a fast response to Sam's praying," Dean remarked, peeking inside a circular canister with a black label where a little girl with an umbrella and yellow coat walked in the rain. _What do weather patterns have to do with salt?_ Castiel thought. "You were here in an instant—literally."

"You were dying, Dean," Castiel replied. "I couldn't let that happen."

Dean thanked God (_Cas' dad,_ he thought, bemused) that his back was turned, so the angel wouldn't see his smile.


End file.
